


without a hitch, definitely

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bounty Hunters, Alternate Universe - Mutants, Guns, M/M, Multi, Mutant Powers, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2018-12-26 04:14:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12051090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: As Simmons dragged the moaning and faintly squirming man to the trunk of his car he reflected that this probably wasn’t the career his father had envisioned for him.





	1. ORANGE, LARGE

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by [this](https://cyborg-sabi.tumblr.com/post/165105606264/right-before-midnight-day-7-of-simmtember-bounty) wonderful artwork by tumblr user [cyborg-sabi](https://cyborg-sabi.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Pringle the cat is an invention of R3dical/Bloodmulch. He seems like a cute guy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please,” the bounty said.
> 
> “Don’t make me gag you,” Simmons replied.

As Simmons dragged the moaning and faintly squirming man to the trunk of his car he reflected that this probably wasn’t the career his father had envisioned for him. He’d probably been imagining something that included shiny medals, or at least a prestigious college degree. But, well, as it turned out college had just so happened to be the perfect environment for his particular cocktail of anxiety and various other personal, emotional, and mental issues to run wild, resulting in a rather spectacular meltdown. A highly _public_ meltdown, which was what had flushed his second option, the army, down the toilet. He’d ended up using his powers that he’d so carefully kept hidden since he’d first gained them when he entered puberty, even from his own parents, when he lost control, and, well. The army didn’t allow filthy, unpatriotic mutants.

Neither did his father, ever the loyal, picture perfect American (on the surface level at least, which was all that really mattered anyways, apparently). He loudly and righteously disowned him, throwing him out of the house forever, his mother looking on grimly and silently out the window. Well, he _had_ always wished that they weren’t his parents. It had been in more of a childish ‘I hope I’m secretly adopted and also that my real parents are super nice and smart and strong’ sort of way, instead of the practical ‘you’re making us look bad, go away’ sort of way it had turned out to be, but. Oh well? Good enough? No use crying over spilled milk?

When reciting platitudes didn’t help him with his daddy issues, focusing on the job he’d actually ended up with did.

He let go of the guy, letting him thump onto the ground with a faint cry. He popped open the trunk of his car and reached down to force him inside. It wasn’t like he had to try hard, really; he’d injured the guy pretty badly. But it was fine, the poster said that ‘severe use of force’ was allowed in bringing him in. That’s what you got for killing your wife, he supposed. Extensive burn scars for the rest of your life.

“Please,” the bounty said.

“Don’t make me gag you,” Simmons replied.

He didn’t make him gag him. He slammed the trunk (which he’d covered in tarp before hand so he wouldn’t have to spend another afternoon scrubbing blood out of it again) shut and got the engine started, turning the radio on when the bounty decided to start getting noisy again. The truth was, if he’d actually remembered to bring the duct tape, he’d have used it. But he didn’t, so. Blasting Uptown Funk it was.

He drove away towards the police station, relieved to see that rush hour hadn’t quite started yet. This was an official job, as all of them were. He didn’t think the world he’d enter if he started taking illegal bounties was quite for him, even if he was a bit tempted at times (usually around the end of the month when rent was due, in fact).

He drove around to the back of the station just like he’d been asked to do the last time he was there (“do you have any idea what it looks like when you drag screaming and crying people in here?”), turned off the ignition, popped the trunk, slung the bounty over his shoulder, and marched on to the back door. It had been long enough now for the bounty to get over the pain of his injuries some and truly let the panic set in. He was struggling again. Great. He probably shouldn’t hurt him again when he was already more or less subdued. And while the police station was _right there._

He kicked the door open, as the bounty was demanding both of his hands at the moment, and walked on in.

“Jesus fucking christ,” Officer Tucker said, not with any horror but more with angry sort of exasperation. “We’re going to have to start getting you drop them off at the hospital first.”

“Severe use of force is allowed, suspect is considered armed and dangerous,” Simmons quoted the poster.

“Oh yeah, I’m sure you had a real hard time up against his kitchen knife, hot shot.” Tucker waved him towards a chair which Simmons dumped the bounty into. Tucker retrieved some handcuffs and shackled the bounty up. “Stop crying, dude, someone’s already called an ambulance.”

“Sooo…” Simmons said leadingly.

“You know we’re going to have to process him and stuff before we can give you the prize first, right? I _know_ you know this.”  

Simmons sighed and nodded. He knew. But he’d had to try, with his bills piling up. The cops could drag it out for _weeks_ sometimes. “Well, you’ve got my number.”

“Yeah, yeah, get out of here now. You need a shower. And a change of clothes. And some time alone with a first aid kit. Maybe just some time alone too? Bow chicka--”

The door closed behind him, cutting the police officer off. Simmons got into his car and looked into the mirror and then down at himself. Okay, yeah. There were, like, five other bounty hunters that he had to share the city with. It was a big city, but still, _five._ He liked some of them just fine, but god did he wish the twins would just fuck off already. So when he heard on the police scanner that there was a _killer_ (they always had the highest prizes) loose nearby, he kinda just dropped everything and started frantically looking for the guy. He’d been tirelessly looking for him for a night and two days by the time he finally found him. A night and two days without a shower or rest, driving around in his car and running around on foot, eating food on the go while looking over his shoulder for the target.

He was so tired he wanted to just fall asleep right there in his car, parked behind the police station. But, no, absolutely not. He _had_ to shower. He smelled like sweat and blood and burned meat. He was _rank._

And he’d been so tired when he finally found the bounty that he was a little sloppier than usual, actually letting the guy get in close range when he _knew_ he had a knife, and god, wasn’t that embarrassing, when was the last time he’d actually lost to someone in a knife fight? Wash. Fuck, Wash would tease him so much if he heard he’d actually let a civilian even graze him with a knife. Or worse, he’d scold. Simmons squirmed uncomfortably in his car seat as he turned the key in the ignition. He was nearing thirty, and the thought of scoldings from authority figures still filled him with dread. But fuck, if the guy who’d taught him about knives knew he’d messed up with _knives,_ well, it’d be mortifying at the very least.

He groaned as he was forced to slow his car down. And there was the rush hour traffic. Well, at least it gave him the opportunity to peek down his shirt and see how bad the damage was. The bounty had attacked him with a wide slashing motion, the amateur, and the cut, while long, wasn’t all that deep, and it was already clotting too, sticking to his shirt a little before he managed to separate the two. If he moisturized, didn’t pick at it, and was careful to disinfect it and such it probably wouldn’t even scar. He wrinkled his nose at it. Unsanitary, but he’d had worse. 

So okay, yeah, he needed a shower, change of clothes, and some time along with a first aid kit, like Tucker said. But time alone? What, to jack off? What was he impying? He wasn't _repressed,_ he didn't need to, to _get laid_ or--

He felt the telltale prickle of being watched and looked up and to the side see the old lady in the car next to him staring at him as he grimaced down his shirt while looking like shit warmed over. He smiled at her uncertainly, uncomfortable and suddenly intensely self conscious. She peeled off a second before the traffic light switched over to orange. Simmons pinched the bridge of his nose and drove forward when the light went green.

He had to slow back down to a standstill soon enough though, and he sighed through his nose, looking off to the side (that didn’t contain a nervous, disapproving looking granny), and then something caught his eye. He leaned forward. Was that…?

He zoomed in with his inorganic eye. He’d made some serious missteps early on in his career before Wash happened upon him and decided to help him out, and he’d lost, among other things, an eye, an ear, an arm, a leg, and a significant amount of skin. He’d saved up and replaced them all with superior cyborg parts. They made him a better bounty hunter. They were fine. He was fine with them. It wasn’t like he could make any normal friends before them anyways, a cursory Google search would out Simmons as not only a mutant, but the mutant that freaked out and set his professor’s beard on fire like a psycho as well.

Simmons zoomed in further on the poster stuck on the office building wall his car was only a few feet away from.

LOST CAT

ORANGE, LARGE

ANSWERS TO PRINGLE

And right there, smack in between the headline about how lost the cat was and its description, was a picture. It wasn’t just of the cat. The cat in question, Pringle, was lounging in the lap of… honestly, a pretty cute guy. He was large, like the cat, wearing an orange shirt, much like the cat, and he was holding some pringles in one of his hands, held halfway to his mouth when the picture was snapped, much like… you got the trend. He had long not-quite straight black hair, dark eyes and… pretty appealing mouth smiling at whoever was taking the picture. The end effect was that it was almost like he was smiling at _Simmons._

His belly flopped and he looked away. Jesus Christ, he wasn’t about to have trouble maintaining eye contact with a _poster_ of all thing, now. He forced himself to look back. The bottom of the poster had, presumably, the guy’s number phone number written on it sideways ten times, a cut having been made once between each instance of the number. The intention was that anyone who decided to be on the lookout or thought they knew where the cat was could rip the number off the poster for safe keeping and call him at their leisure. Only two people had taken a strip.

Simmons drummed his fingers on his steering wheel nervously and made himself look away from those eyes, back on the road, or rather, the car stubbornly sitting in front of his car. He was a professional bounty hunter who needed to keep his schedule open at all times. Someone could go on the run in his vicinity at a moment’s notice and he had to be ready to give chase when the opportunity presented itself. Despite the usually high pay outs, they didn’t happen that often.

He wasn’t going to waste his time on chasing down some (admittedly pretty hot) guy’s _cat._ He was better than that. His time was worth more than-- his eyes darted to check the prize. Yeesh, that was low. He was comparing it to what he’d get for hunting down murderers and thieves for the government, but still… actually, now that he thought about it, that prize was very _exact,_ down to the cent. No nice round numbers there.

He’d probably scrounged up every penny he could spare for the prize, he realized with a pang.

Simmons realized that he was staring at the guy’s face again, looked away, and took a deep breath and released it. Simmons didn’t work charity cases. He had to save up as much money as he could for those long droughts when no one committed much crime, no one got away from the cops much, or the other bounty hunters snatched up all of the bounties before him, infuriatingly. It happened.

Simmons found himself looking at the poster _again,_ and groaned to himself. As if anything would come of it anyways. Simmons was clunky and gross and covered in only half feeling metal bits and numbed scars, and if telling someone what his career was didn’t drive dating prospects away, the second they found out what he _was_ (fuck you, Google), well, all that was left of them was the dust they’d kicked up while running blowing away in the wind.

The standstill finally ended, and he got to move his car enough that the poster wasn’t in his sight any longer. He sighed with relief as he came to a stop again. He fiddled with the radio to distract himself. Uptown Funk again, no thanks. Some right wing nut going off on a rant about mutants, no thanks. Prank calls, no thanks. He turned the radio off.

He stared at the car in front of him.

Simmons got out of his car, ran down the street, grabbed a strip of the poster, and ran back to his car. On second thought, he ran back and grabbed the whole poster. He was, as previously stated, a professional fucking bounty hunter. He _would_ find that goddamned cat and be shot down by the guy in person so he could stop thinking about him. It was probably just a really good picture, great lighting, fortunate hair day, a lovely smile that would never be directed at Simmons himself.

He’s going to meet this guy in person and promptly get over him. That’s the plan, and it’s flawless and going to go off without a hitch, definitely. How hard could it possibly be to find a cat anyways?


	2. paw prints on concrete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It turns out that finding a cat is not the same thing as hunting down a criminal at all.

It turns out that finding a cat is not the same thing as hunting down a criminal at all. Cats, for one, don’t leave behind a money trail. And they don’t stick in people’s memories because they’re behaving suspiciously. A cat’s natural state of being is being weird as fuck, apparently. And appearances? All cats look the same to Simmons. He is firmly a dog person and cannot fucking tell the difference between one orange cat and another. And there are way more orange cats in this city than he would’ve at first assumed. 

He spends a while pondering the problem before he comes up with a logical solution. It won’t guarantee his success, but it’ll statistically up his chances, at least.  

Simmons does a background check on the target’s (Pringle the cat) only known acquaintance (poster guy). It’s what he’d do with any other bounty with so little go off of. He hesitates for a moment, wondering if it’s creepy to do this considering that he thinks poster guy’s cute. He then goes ahead with it anyways because if he wanted to avoid being creepy then it was far too late for him. About one career in hunting down humans like animals and violently dragging them towards imprisonment for money and also admittedly some thrills, one incident of losing most of the left side of his body and having to replace it with metal and wires, one far too fiery public meltdown, one puberty that resulted in finding and then swiftly frantically hiding way too many burned-to-ashes pillows in the morning, and one fucked up childhood with fucked up parents that shouldn’t have gotten into a fucked up marriage had a fucked up kid and started a fucked up family late. That was very late. Clearly, Simmons was a long lost cause and he should do as many background checks on innocent people who probably didn’t deserve it as he wanted as recompense for the shitty hand life had dealt him. He was going to violate people’s privacy to his heart's content. 

Anyways. Dexter Grif himself didn’t have any social media accounts for his not-exactly-legally obtained facial recognition software to ping him for, but his sister Kaikaina Grif named him and took a lot of pictures of him that she posted on her own, and she was a bit of a social media personality, apparently. If Kaikaina Grif tweeted that she was holding a rave you damn well better immediately like, reblog, and gush about how you just couldn’t wait if you were anybody even vaguely important at all. Apparently. 

Simmons’ social bubble was pretty small and closed off. Some might even say it was dead, stagnant, and where moth balls finally went to eternal rest when they were tired of it all. And social media worked his anxiety up something fierce. So yeah, he hadn’t known Kaikaina Grif’s raves were something that you had to attend at least once to properly appreciate even being alive, or that they were a thing at all. 

He’s used to being a loser though, so he moves on once he’s got what he needs i.e Dexter Grif’s name. 

After pinning the poster to his wall and poking around on Kaikaina Grif’s many social media accounts for a little while, fatigue hits him up the head again and he remembers that he came back to his apartment to clean up. Right. 

He throws his stinky clothes into the hamper for dealing with later (soon, he swears), and showers. He almost passes out and has to resentfully turn down the temperature until its frigid as hell so he can make his way through shampooing his hair without collapsing onto the drain. He brushes his teeth, wolves down some food he doesn’t have to prepare and regrets not waiting to brush his teeth until after he’d eaten like a civilized human being, slaps some bandages onto his knife wound, and falls into his bed. 

He falls asleep instantly. The fact that he hadn’t earlier is a testament to his iron will, and also the fact that his mind’s so neurotic that if he tried to go to bed  _ without _ brushing his teeth, putting on his jammies, eating, showering, and making sure there weren’t any dirty clothes or stains on his floor, he’d probably have a fucking aneurysm right there on his mattress. Thank god he hadn’t accidentally glimpsed his kitchen sink while he was at it. Had he left plates there to soak earlier or not? It didn’t matter. So long as they plausibly didn’t exist, he didn’t have to get up out of bed and go and wash them to appease the mental illness gods. 

He wakes up aching and thirsty over twelve hours later. He eats, drinks, brushes, showers, dresses, and gets back to work. 

It’s only as he’s crawling through the freshly broken basement window of the gymnasium of the high school Dexter Grif used to attend that he begins to consider that he may have given himself the self appointed, entirely pointless task of finding some dude’s cat because he’s a workaholic who has nothing going for him when he’s not got a bounty to track down except rewatching the same five sci fi shows he actually likes for the millionth time. 

Maybe he should try and read some new books instead of rifling through some very poorly organized files in a dusty storage room. Maybe he should try and somehow come up with a vaguely valid sounding reason to see Wash again even though he’d made it very clear that he didn’t want anything do with the bounty hunting life any longer, and pretty much the only thing that ever happened in Simmons’ life any longer was bounty hunting shit or staring blankly at the TV so that basically cut them off from each other as effectively as his original, actual father figure had done.  Maybe he should call up Sarge and his guys to buy more ammo from them even though he still had plenty, claim that he’d used it all on his last hunt, try and casually have an actual conversation with them while he’s forking over the cash for bullets and throwing knives. 

Maybe he’s pathetic and antisocial and just properly organizes the files and dusts the storage room a bit on his way out, a few pictures snapped with his phone of Dexter Grif’s moldy (moldy!) file. 

Dexter Grif is a high school dropout, a perpetual slacker and skipper of classes, so many tardy slips and red notes about falling asleep in class that Simmons is shocked that Dexter Grif was the one who decided that he wasn’t going to school any longer. His homeroom teacher notes in the margins that he has a gift for philosophy though, apparently. 

That isn’t important though. What’s important is that he wrote down his home address. It doesn’t matter if he’s moved. Simmons can follow paper trails far better than he can paw prints on concrete.

* * *

 

He prints and pins the photos of the high school file on the wall next to the poster once he’s confirmed that he still lives there. And then he gets to work on his solution.

He gets his ass on Google Maps, zooms in on where Dexter Grif lives, prints that shit, pins it to what’s rapidly growing into one of his Case Walls even though he’s just trying to find a fucking cat for a two digit prize, Jesus Christ, and he circles with a black marker a one mile perimeter around Ground Zero (the Grif residence). 

He writes down all of the street names in that bubble, packs a light lunch, and gets in his car. 

His logic goes like this: cats don’t go on cross country trips like they’re recent graduates taking a gap year to find themselves. They try and stick to areas they know, and they don’t decide to just sprint away in one direction for the hell of it. He’s pretty sure, at least. Again, dog person. So logically, Pringle is probably not too far from home. And the less area Simmons searches, the lesser the likelihood that he’s going to grab the wrong orange cat. 

Simmons slowly drives down the first street he’s got on his notepad, sees an orange cat, comes to a screeching halt, jumps out, runs after the little bastard, trees it, climbs up the tree to get it, gets scratched, grabs the protesting cat anyways, and gently tosses it into his car, making sure his windows are closed before he gets inside. He sits down and sighs happily as the cat yowls at him. That was easy! He  _ knew-- _

Simmons sees another orange cat walk languidly across the road down the block. He looks at the copy of the poster he printed. He looks at the cat in his car. He looks at the cat on the street. 

They all look fucking identical to him. 

With a frustrated yell, he gets out, barely stops the first cat from getting out of his car, and repeats the whole terrible process with Pringle #2. He digs through his glove box, triumphantly holds up a pad of sticky notes, and writes _ Bonner Street  _ on two of them before sticking one of them on each of the highly unpleased cats. He makes sure to stick them on a hard to reach spot. 

He drives down about a dozen more roads, repeating the process and unfortunately finding four more disturbingly similar looking orange cats. He’s stopped trying to get them to not rip his upholstery to shreds. He’ll fix it later. 

Finally, he’s crossed all of the roads off of his list, and he’s idling nervously in front of Dexter Grif’s house like a total creep. Like anything he’s done today hasn’t been insanely creepy, or just flatout insane. 

A cat with a sticky note saying  _ Doyle Street _ climbs onto his lap. He looks into its eyes. It meows. He melts a little, heartbeat slowing down from its rapid pace just a bit. It abruptly digs its claws into his leg (his  _ flesh _ leg) while still making unflinching, adorable eye contact with him. Simmons hisses and has to rip it off of himself to free his leg. 

Definitely, abso-fucking-lutely a dog person. Which is why he has to get out of this little slice of feline-hell he created for himself for only god knows what reason. He swallows dryly, squares his shoulders like he’s brave, and gets out of the car. Walks up to Dexter Grif’s door. Raises his hand to knock. Lets his hand just awkwardly hang there in the air instead of knocking. Continues not knocking. 

Come on.  _ Come on.  _ It’s just some guy! Some guy he thinks is pretty cute, sure. Some guy that’s he’s spent the whole day basically stalking (for _ professional _ reasons!), sure. But he can do this! He set a knife wielding psycho’s polo shirt on fire just yesterday, damn it! 

Dexter Grif opens up the door before Simmons gets to knock, which is probably for the best, because who knows how long he could’ve dragged that out, arguing himself out of and back into it over and over again. He wishes he hadn’t made that surprised sound though. 

“Uh,” Dexter Grif says. “Hi?” 

“Cat,” Simmons says like a super smooth Casanova. He wishes someone with a gun could come and shoot him. He knows lots of people that fit that description. Most people he knows fit that description, actually. Okay, all of them do. Anyways. 

Anyways. 

Dexter Grif has bags underneath his eyes. His hair is greasy and tangled. His shirt has a really big coffee stain on it. He has an odor. He isn’t smiling at Simmons like he did at the photographer. It  _ was _ a very flattering picture. He  _ does _ look much worse right now. Yet Simmons still feels himself break into a nervous sweat and all of his prepared greetings and responses escape his mind and tongue as surely as the string of an escaping balloon from a reaching child’s hands. 

“I have your cat,” he forces himself to say. And then, “That’s not, like, a threat, I didn’t kidnap your cat. I found it. Randomly. I saw your poster. I  _ think _ I found your cat. Help?” 

Dexter Grif blinks at him groggily, and then as the words sink in, excitedly. Simmons feels himself flush and hates himself for being so fucking gay and starved for approval. Calm  _ down, _ Simmons. 

“You found Pringle?” 

“Uh, maybe.”  _ Stunning  _ response. Charming, witty, yet down to earth. 

“Where is he?” 

Simmons gestures to his car. Dexter Grif walks towards it, walking ahead of Simmons, and a dozen different ways Simmons could take him down like this enter his mind instantly, attacking him from behind and stowing him away in his car, your cat’s in the trunk, promise. His trained reflexes make him a little sick for the first time in a long while. He’s also kinda sickened by Dexter Grif’s lack of caution though, so he supposes it evens out. He’s not losing his brutal touch. 

He stares wide eyed through his car window, and then over at Simmons. Simmons smiles so awkwardly he instantly stops because of how awful it makes his face and soul feel. 

“You randomly found six cats?” he asks skeptically. 

“Well, uh,” he floundered. “Is one of them yours? I can’t tell ‘em apart, they all look the same to me.” He chuckles a little helplessly, apologetically, dodging the question blatantly and entirely. 

“Well that’s no wonder.” Dexter Grif tucks a lock of his hair behind his ear and why does Simmons’ inorganic eye zoom in on that, he didn’t ask it to, he’s pretty sure. “One of the cats in the neighborhood had a litter a few years ago and the owner mostly dispersed them to all of her neighbours. Pringle’s one of them.” 

“... So your neighborhood’s full of Pringle lookalikes.” 

“Basically.” 

Simmons’ logical solution may have a slight flaw. 

“Is one of them--?” 

“No,” Dexter Grif says shortly, clearly disappointed even if he seems to be trying to hide it, and Simmons feels like whenever he brought home an F in gym or a B+ in anything else. He feels… way too crestfallen about this, goddamnit. He shouldn’t be staking so much of his emotions on this, he shouldn’t be wasting so much time and thought on it, he shouldn’t. 

But what else should he be doing? Rewatching Star Trek alone in the dark of his apartment with the police scanner on in the background again? 

“... Okay,” he says. And then, before he can think better of it, “I’ll be back tomorrow with more cats, Mr. Grif.” He probably shouldn’t call someone he wants to flirt with Mr. Grif. He definitely shouldn’t be revealing how fucking crazy he is to him with weird ass promises like that. 

But then again, if weird and crazy was a dealbreaker for Dexter Grif, then he hadn’t stood a chance from the start. He walks towards his car. He’s going to have to drop all of those cats off where he found them before he can go home (and back to work), after all. 

“You can just call me Grif,” he says, and Simmons stops in his tracks, looks over his shoulder. 

Grif is looking straight at him, suddenly looking far more present and awake and  _ focused on Simmons _ than he has until now. 

Grif smiles at him, and it isn’t quite like the smile on the poster, but it strikes Simmons like a lightning bolt just the same. 

“... Simmons,” he rasps dryly, and Grif nods and walks away. 

Simmons is  _ so _ fucking gay. 


	3. Fuck that, actually

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s already tried the logical solution though, and he doesn’t know where to go next, what else to try.
> 
> Well. He knows, he just doesn’t think he should.

Simmons has committed. He looked the client in the eye and said he’d continue trying. He broke into a public school and committed  _ several  _ crimes. He’s got a Case Wall, for fuck’s sake. No, it doesn’t matter that it’s just a missing cat. He’s  _ doing this,  _ even if it kills him. 

He’s already tried the logical solution though, and he doesn’t know where to go next, what else to try. 

Well. He knows, he just doesn’t think he should. Is allowed to. 

No. Fuck that, actually. He does things he’s not allowed to on a daily basis, and besides, this might actually finally be the loophole he’s been looking for. No one in their right mind would describe searching for a missing cat as bounty hunter work, no matter how seriously he’s been taking it. 

In other words: Simmons finally has an excuse to go and see Wash again. 

Simmons goes and sees Wash. 

The last time he’d seen him, Wash had been living in a cold, kind of damp warehouse, barren and full of concrete, bare pipes, weapons, and a single mattress lying on the floor. He went to the Chinese restaurant a block down when he had to go the bathroom. 

Now Simmons parks his dingy, scratched car in front of a literal white picket fence and feels horribly out of place like he never had in that probably infested warehouse. A very strong sign that he isn’t a part of Wash’s life any longer and should just leave. He ignores it with determination and gets out of his car, walking up the driveway to press the doorbell. There’s an adorable little cat statue by the door, and a potted plant full of flowers. The lawn is a bright, healthy green. He hopes none of the neighbours calls the cops on him for ‘suspicious behavior’. 

A woman with bright red hair and green eyes opens the door, and Simmons freezes, suddenly horribly certain that he’s somehow messed up and Wash  _ doesn’t _ live here--

She looks at him curiously. “Are you Simmons?” 

“Uh,” he says, thrown completely off balance. “Yes.” 

“Thought so,” she says with a nod, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. A golden wedding ring on her finger glints in the sunlight. “Don’t think there’s a whole lot of people in this town who fit your description.” 

“Right. Yes. I’m pretty… distinctive.” Oh god. Oh fuck, is this--

“I’m Wash’s wife,” she says, sticking her hand out to shake. “Carolina. He’s told me about you.” 

He’s gotten  _ married _ since Simmons has seen him. He stares at the outstretched hand blankly for a far too long moment before he remembers himself and hurriedly takes her hand and pumps it up and down quickly, hopefully fast enough for her not to notice any clamminess. 

“He’s, uh, told you about me? What, exactly--” What he’s really asking: how much of the truth has he told you about me? Does this woman even know that Wash used to be a bounty hunter? Oh god, please don’t let him be dragged into a web of lies, he’s so bad with those. 

“Just that you’re his old bounty hunting apprentice. Fussy cyborg, always accidentally setting stuff on fire?” 

Simmons is too busy flushing with embarrassed indignation to be relieved at their apparently honest, sharing relationship. “I got over that! I’ve-- I’ve grown as a person!” 

She grins. “Yeah, you’re Simmons alright. You should call your old teacher more often. Come on in.” 

Simmons opens his mouth to say that Wash doesn’t want that, but then closes it as she beckons him inside. Apparently Wash hadn’t let her in on that little tidbit. Fine. Whatever. 

The inside of the house is just as cozy and innocently pretty as the outside. There’s the smell of cookies wafting through the air and cat hair everywhere and pictures of Carolina and Wash smiling like he’s never seen him do before on the walls that make him stare before he follows Carolina again with a start. 

“I can just leave a message or--”

“That won’t be necessary,” she says, and then she leads him into the living room and there he is. Wash, sitting on the couch with a cat on his lap and a book in his hands, wearing a comfortable looking sweater and as he looks up from his book to Simmons he can’t stop his shoulders from creeping up, slowly wincing like he’s been caught doing something wrong. Because he has. Wash doesn’t want to see him again. He doesn’t want for him to ruin his perfect, new, safe life with his-- his _ Simmons-ness.  _ This was an awful, stupid idea. 

Wash blinks. 

Simmons gives him the most nervous smile of his life. “Hi…?” 

“What the hell.” 

Not a great start. 

Carolina snorts at him, or possible the both of them. “If the two of you are gonna’ start a fight then go out into the yard where the china cabinet isn’t.” 

“No, no, I don’t want to start a fight!” Simmons panickedly says, waving his hands before he abruptly remembers himself and stuffs his hands into his pockets. Wash more than anyone knows how much damage he can do with his hands. 

“Simmons, you haven’t talked to me in over a  _ year. _ I was starting to think you were dead or something!” Wash puts down his book to gesture with his hands, looks like he even might stand up for a moment before the cat on his lap purrs and he guiltily settles back down on the couch. Simmons is very, very grateful towards the cat for a moment. 

“Um,” he says. “Sorry…?” Wasn’t that what Wash wanted though? Wasn’t the wrong thing he was doing here seeing him at all? 

Wash huffs, and pinches at the bridge of his nose. “Nevermind,” he groans. “What’s broken your streak of radio silence?” 

Oh god, here it is. The moment he has to convince him, or fail the case (and lose contact with him forever). 

“I know what you said, but I need your help with one last job, Wash,” he forces himself to say. Carolina goes still and tense out of the corner of his eye. Wash straightens where he sits, looks at him seriously. “I can’t do this one on my own.”

“What is it?” he asks, grim as a grave. 

Slowly, Simmons reaches into his pocket and unfolds the square of paper he’s got there, and turns the missing cat poster to face Wash. “I need to find this cat.” 

Carolina cracks the fuck up. 


	4. Blink if you’re under duress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So,” Wash says. “What’s got you so interested in finding this cat? I can’t imagine that it’s the fifteen dollars and some change.”
> 
> “Uh,” Simmons flounders, but is then saved by Carolina.
> 
> “Simmons, someone’s here for you!”

The neighbours  _ do _ call the cops on him. There’s a knock on the door as Wash and Carolina are both trying not to die laughing into their coffee and cakes as Simmons tells them what he’s already tried, and Simmons is trying to survive the conflicting feelings of embarrassment at how stupid he now seems in hindsight and pleasure at making Wash and his wife laugh. And at having Wash agree to help him. 

Having a cat person on the case with him will help him catch the bounty-- the cat in no time, he just knows it. 

Carolina looks up, eyebrows raised, and leaves them to go and answer the door. 

“So,” Wash says. “What’s got you so interested in finding this cat? I can’t imagine that it’s the fifteen dollars and some change.” 

“Uh,” Simmons flounders, but is then saved by Carolina. 

“Simmons, someone’s here for you!” 

He looks up, startled. He hasn’t told anyone he was going here. What…? 

He stands up and walks over just far enough to peer into the hallway and see Tucker sending him a shiteating grin over Carolina’s shoulder. 

“I never pegged you as a homewrecker, Simmons!” he calls out. “Spending time with a  _ married woman--” _

Wash peers into the hallway over at Tucker along with him, an incredulous eyebrow raised. 

“--and her husband at the  _ same time! _ Simmons! I never pegged you as a guy who’d sleep with a married couple. Highfive!” And then he actually holds his hand up for a high five, standing five feet away. 

Carolina and Wash stare at him blankly. Tucker takes some adjusting to get used to. 

“Tucker, what the hell are you doing here?” he asks, glancing guiltily at a poker faced Wash. He hadn’t meant to bring a cop to his door.  _ Fuck.  _

“Well, the station got a call in over a ‘frightening looking individual’ matching your description, and thankfully the lady who got the call remembered my request and just let me handle it.” 

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Has he seriously changed so much that he can’t even walk into a cul-de-sac any longer without nervous soccer moms calling the cops on him? Is it his clothes, or...? Sure, he’s got some scars, some piercings, some scratches and bruises, some very visible cyborg modifications, and maybe while what he wears is clean, it’s clearly a little frayed and worn…

Maybe he should try and avoid suburbs from now on. 

“Well, as you can see nothing’s on fire and no one’s screaming. I’m just visiting some… friends.” The lie makes him flush. He’s an awful liar, which seriously made those years when he was trying to hide being a mutant (and not to mention being gay on top of it all too) an unbearable trial. Lying and saying that Wash and Carolina are his friends  _ in front of them _ just makes him feel embarrassed as well, like a desperate, clingy, lonely nerd--

“Blink if you’re under duress,” Tucker loudly hiss whispers to Carolina. Simmons rolls his eyes. 

“Simmons and I were just going to leave,” Wash says coolly. Grabbing a jacket, he shrugs his way past Tucker in the doorway, giving him a slight nod on his way out. “Officer.” 

Tucker raises his eyebrows at Wash’s retreating back, and then at Simmons, as if he was saying ‘really? These are the kind of people you hang out with?’

“Uh, bye,” he says, and scrambles after Wash. “And remember to give me a ring about that prize when you can!” 

“Yeah, yeah!” 

“Sorry about him,” he hears Carolina say as he walks over to Wash who’s waiting by Simmons’ car, politely waiting for him to unlock it rather than just breaking into it on his own. “He’s had some bad experiences with cops.”

“Oh, no man I get it…”

And then he’s out of earshot. He unlocks the car and gets into the driver’s seat, noting Tucker’s new partner sitting shotgun in the patrol car, watching on starry eyed as Tucker makes small talk with Carolina. What was his name, Palomo? Whatever. Simmons starts the car. 

He glances out of the corner of his eye at Wash. Where before he’d been relaxed and downright happy, he was now tense and even a little grim. 

“I’m sorry--” he starts. 

“You’re on good terms with the cops,” he interrupts him. “That’s good. You should always try and have a good rapport with them if you have the chance. You’re following my advice.” 

This is, objectively speaking, praise. It’s a little hard to accept it when Wash looks so grave, when Simmons had almost immediately fucked up after seeing him again after so long by bringing a cop to his door, even if that cop was Tucker and his tagalong. 

Wash had never had the chance to have a good rapport with the cops, after all. No hope of that when you’re an _ illegal _ bounty hunter. 

“I-- I’m sure you won’t be found out,” he rambles uncontrollably, unable to handle the heavy silence. “You haven’t done anything in over a year, right? Tucker doesn’t suspect anything.” 

Wash sighs, visibly trying to release the tension in his body as he leans against the back of his (shredded by cats) seat. “It’s fine. We left Carolina with him; she’ll make sure not to let him walk away from the house until he’s totally at ease.” 

“Well, that should be easy. If there’s one thing that can distract Tucker, it’s a pretty woman, trust me.” It occurs to him that he just called Wash’s wife pretty to his face and he almost veers straight off the road. Wash screeches at him about road safety and they’re both promptly distracted from Simmons’ various fuckups by his latest and most pressing fuckup, i.e their near death via his poor driving. 

Hey, he’ll take it. 

“So,” Simmons says after a long while of comfortingly familiar bickering. “Any ideas about how to find this cat?” 

Wash grins. “I think I can come up with something.” 


	5. FERTILIZER FOR THE MINEFIELD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “First off, who do you trust?” Wash asks.
> 
> “You,” Simmons answers.

“First off, who do you trust?” Wash asks. 

“You,” Simmons answers. 

Wash spots something very interesting outside of the car window and has to look at it intently for a few moments, preventing Simmons from seeing anything but the back of his head. 

Oh damn, he’d just answered without thinking. He’s an idiot. That was weird. That was wrong. The right answer was probably ‘no one’, or something else cool like that. 

Wash clears his throat, face still turned away. “Who else? Since I’m already in the car with you.” 

“Well…” He probably couldn’t say Tucker, could he. Since he was a cop that Simmons, frankly, was only on a casually sort of friendly basis with. Who else, who else… “Carolina?” 

“You met her this morning, Simmons,” he says, finally turning from the window just so he can shoot Simmons an incredulous expression. 

Simmons flushes. “Yeah, but, well, by association! With you! You wouldn’t marry someone who wasn’t trustworthy, right?” 

“... Right,” he says after staring at him for a moment,  his mouth ticking up at the corner into a helpless little grin. “But she’s occupied with the cop at the moment. Someone else?” 

Okay, okay, he clearly wants for Simmons to come up with a name here. He  _ has _ to come up with a name. Any name--

“Sarge!” he cries triumphantly as the man occurs to him. 

Wash blinks at him, nonplussed. 

“He is, uh, admittedly one of my competitors,” he explains. “He and his guys. Sarge, Lopez, and Donut. Three of the five other bounty hunters that live in this city. We don’t cooperate on bounties or anything, we definitely race each other for them, but he sells me decent ammo and weapons and stuff at a reasonable price. He’s competitive as hell, but he’s alright. They seem alright.” 

Simmons is the only bounty hunter in town without a partner, without Wash. He tries not to think about what the job would be like with someone at his back, to remember what it _ had _ been like. (Easier. Not soul crushingly lonely.  _ Fun.)  _

“Hmm,” Wash considers. 

“Don’t you keep up with the bounty hunters in town?” he asks curiously. 

“Not since I retired,” he replied, to which Simmons nodded in understanding. Sarge and his guys had only come into town about half a year ago, muttering something about torches and pitchforks and being ridden out of town on a rail. “And besides, I mostly just paid attention to the other illegal ones.” 

Of course. Duh. No reason to waste effort on keeping tabs on people who can’t hunt down the bounties you’ve got your eye on-- the ones people call you on a burner phone to tell you about, the ones advertised on forum posts on the darkweb, the ones you get paid for at drop off points. 

One could almost call it assasination work. 

“Alright then,” Wash says. “I think it’s time for us to pay Sarge and his guys a visit.” 

Simmons felt his eyebrows scrunch together. “Why?” 

“To get started on your information network, Simmons. You should’ve gotten one started up by now anyways, you’ve been operating as a bounty hunter for a while now. How do you usually find your bounties?” 

“Uh…” Amateur hacking, shaking down and threatening anyone he thought possibly knew something relevant, listening to the police scanner and trying to outrun them whenever they caught whiff of the bounty, at least once literally going through their garbage, and depressingly often just outright looking, almost without any kind of direction, like he was playing hide and seek. “With… some grit and luck?” 

Wash pinches the bridge of his nose longsufferingly. _ “Simmons.”  _

“Hey, it works! Sort of. Anyways, the Reds--that’s what Sarge and his guys call themselves-- wouldn’t be any help to me when it comes to a bounty, they’d keep any information they got on one of those for their own use.”

“Yes, but you said that they’re reasonably cooperative for a price outside of bounties, right?” Wash asks coaxingly. 

“Right,” Simmons says dutifully. 

“So they should be good for the cat hunt, at least. You can create something without them for more serious searches later. It’s not like they’ll try and fight you over finding a fifteen dollar cat, right?” 

“Uhhhhhhhhhh,” Simmons says. 

“Simmons. Come on.” 

“Um, yes, right! Of course not! I am a hundred percent sure that they won’t do just that! They’re definitely not crazy!”

* * *

 

“ONE MORE STEP AND YOU’LL BE NOTHING BUT FERTILIZER FOR THE MINEFIELD, DIRTBAG.” An old, gravely Southern voice hollers through a megaphone, unseen. 

Wash looks down at the ground. “This is asphalt. You can’t bury mines in asphalt.” 

“Just raise your hands and let them point some floodlights at your for a while,” Simmons whispers to him. “Sarge gets jumpy when strangers approach the warehouse.” 

“It’s broad daylight, why do they even need flood-- argh.” Floodlights are pointed right at Wash’s face. He proceeds to screw his eyes shut and grimace, turning his face away. He looks like he’s being made to do something relatively disagreeable, like taking soggy hair out of the shower drain with his bare hands. Bearable, but definitely unpleasant. 

“He’s with me!” Simmons calls out. “He’s… an acquaintance! He’s safe, Sarge!” 

“Oh, we’ll see about that! He better agree to a pat down!” Sarge shouts. 

“And a cavity search!” Donut chimes in. 

Simmons sighs. 

“I’m just going to come right out and say that I’ve got multiple guns and knives on me,” Wash shouts back. 

Simmons side eyes him. He didn’t remember him going to go and get a bunch of weapons strapped on him before they left. Had he just… been casually wearing an armory while reading on the couch one Saturday morning? 

Yes. Obviously. 

Clearly, just because Wash was leading a normal and safe life did not automatically magically turn him into a normal and safe man. 

“We’re not worried about that, stranger!” Sarge says. 

_ “I am,” _ Lopez says. 

“We’re worried about wires!” 

“... Why?” Wash asks. 

“Don’t ask,” Simmons says too late. 

“Why? Why!? Because we don’t want for our enemies to learn our weaknesses, dangit!”

“What enemies?” 

“Our rivals, numbnuts! ‘Fellow’ bounty hunters!” 

“Isn’t Simmons one of those, though?” 

“He’s a known entity,” Sarge says dismissively. 

Simmons feels strangely slighted. 

“Okay, look, I’m not wearing a wire and I’m not a bounty hunter.” 

“We don’t trust that easy!” 

“I’ll, uh… I’ll…” 

“Tell him to surrender his shirt,” Donut hisses, his whisper being caught by the megaphone and instantly rendering any attempted subtlety moot. “That way we’ll be able to see if he’s wearing a wire!” 

“That’s brilliant, m’boy! SURRENDER YOUR SHIRT, SCUMBAG.”

_ “No, it’s not. He obviously just wants to ogle.”  _

“Lopez agrees with me!” 

Wash gives a long, long sigh, and then shoots Simmons a tired, accusing look. Simmons gives him a sheepishly awkward smile. 

“I forgot how crazy most bounty hunters are,” he groans, and then resignedly takes his shirt off. “Let’s get this over with.” 


	6. your chest is wonderful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s a cat!” Wash screeches back aggressively.
> 
> “Ten dollars, minimum!” Sarge demands.
> 
> “Six!” Wash counters, viciously haggling over the difference of a couple of dollars as if he hasn’t been paid hundreds of grands for other bounties before.

Everyone in the room is skillfully ignoring the fact that Wash is only half clothed as Donut pours everyone a cup of tea. 

Sarge takes the unlit cigar (‘no smoking indoors!’ a sign written in pink glitter gel pen proclaims boldly on the wall) out of his mouth to shatter the silence first. “So what’re you here for, then?”

“Well--” Simmons starts. 

“Declaration of war?” Sarge interrupts hopefully. “Delivering threats? Ultimatums?” 

“I thought you said you were on okay terms with this guy,” Wash mutters to him. 

“He just gets bored without conflict, I think,” Simmons mutters back. 

“Don’t backtalk a man to his face!” Sarge barks. 

“Sorry, sir!” Simmons replies, chastised to the point that he doesn’t even notice the ‘sir’. 

“We’re here to ask you to keep an eye out for something for us,” Wash interjects hurriedly before the conversation devolves even further from what they’d initially intended to discuss. 

“Oh?” Donut asks curiously, settling down in his own seat. “What exactly?” 

“Somethin’ do with a  _ job?” _ Sarge asks pointedly. 

“Nope!” Simmons quickly protests. “Nothing even _ remotely  _ close to a job.” 

“Why do you sound like you’re lying?” Wash asks incredulously. “You’re  _ not.”  _

_ “Isn’t  _ he?” Sarge asks, just as pointed as before. 

“A friend of his lost his cat,” Wash says, sounding tired and clearly ready to wrap up the conversation that’s barely started. 

_ “Now _ that  _ was a lie,” _ Lopez says.  _ “Simmons obviously doesn’t have friends. He is the saddest most transparently pathetic excuse of a human being on the planet.”  _

“... Does anyone here speak Spanish?” Wash asks. 

“Yeah!” Donut says. 

Lopez shakes his head in negation, but with a resigned look to his face. 

“Look, just, Simmons? Show them a picture of the cat.” 

He does just that, fumbling for the poster in his pocket. Before they’d exited the car, Wash had told him to rip off the parts of the poster that was about the prize and the phone numbers and such, leaving only behind the picture for help with identification. 

“I don’t like the look of him,” Sarge immediately says. 

“The cat?” Simmons asks. 

“Him too.” 

Wash is rubbing at his temples as he speaks up. “If you give us word that you’ve seen this cat-- _ this specific cat _ \-- then we’ll give you, like, five dollars?” 

“Five dollars!?” Sarge howls, instantly and enthusiastically throwing himself into negotiations. “This is daylight robbery!” 

“It’s a  _ cat!”  _ Wash screeches back aggressively. 

“Ten dollars, minimum!” Sarge demands.

“Six!” Wash counters, viciously haggling over the difference of a couple of dollars as if he hasn’t been paid hundreds of grands for other bounties before. 

“Nine!” 

“Seven!” 

“Seven dollars and a picture of you shirtless!” 

“Deal!” 

“Deal!”

“What?” Simmons asks. 

“Lopez, go get the camera! The good one!” 

_ “What?” _

* * *

“I don’t see how much of a difference the Reds keeping an eye for us will do,” Simmons says as he drives Wash home. “They’re three guys.” 

“Well, Simmons, you see, I’m certain that they’ve got an extensive information network to work with themselves. Those are the kinds of people you’ll want to add to your own network, the ones with their own contacts to significantly add to the efficiency of your flow of information.” 

“How do you know they’ve got an information network?” 

“Because,” Wash says. “They’re a team of bounty hunters organized enough to have a stockpile of weapons, a base of operations, and they’ve been in the line of business for at least half a year, probably much longer.” 

“I don’t see how that--”

“Simmons. You  _ seriously _ should have a network of your own by now. I have no idea how I forgot to teach you that.” 

… Probably because Simmons had been a little distracted--and distracting-- with his hard to control fire powers and clumsiness with guns and rookie enthusiasm for knives and lackluster skills with hand to hand and general ignorance of damn near everything to do with bounty hunting. Wash had clearly never taught someone before, and Simmons had needed to be taught in  _ everything.  _

No wonder he missed some things. 

“You forgot your shirt,” Simmons says instead of any of that stuff. 

Wash starts cursing. 

“You could’ve probably bartered them down to six dollars in exchange for the shirt,” he goes on. “But instead you gave it to them for _ free, _ you sucker.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Wash snorts, sounding fond, and Simmons really does try to tamp down on the pleased smile curling along his lips. 

“Okay, we’re here--”

“The cop car’s still here,” Wash says, sounding abruptly cold and serious. 

Simmons looks. So it is, sitting empty and parked on the side of the road by Wash and Carolina’s house, devoid of even Tucker’s partner. Wash and Simmons have left them alone for hours; it’s decidedly suspicious that they still haven’t left the house. 

“Weird,” Simmons says, which doesn’t even come close to describing the dread that’s creeping into his veins. Why dread, though? What horrible thing could have possibly happened? If Tucker had  _ somehow _ found out that Wash had used to be an illegal bounty hunter from some clue in his house then the neighborhood would be crawling with cop cars, or at least more than just the one empty one. What else could have happened? 

It’s just Simmons’ anxiety acting up. It’s just Wash’s paranoia rearing its head again. 

Simmons, instead of just dropping Wash off and driving home, follows Wash out of the car and up his driveway without a word or a look exchanged between them. 

Wash opens his (unlocked) door without knocking, without letting the hinges creak. Simmons follows. 

The tension breaks anticlimactically but with intense relief as they both hear Carolina’s laugh from inside the house, genuine and delighted. She’s okay, everything must be okay. 

They both let their footsteps be heard, and Wash closes the door with an audible click. 

“Carolina?” he calls out. 

“Wash, you’re back!” she cries back. “How was coffee with Simmons?” 

And then they both enter the living room to see Tucker and Carolina awkwardly posed on a Twister mat, limbs tangled and trembling. 

“Left hand blue,” Palomo says, looking up from the wheel he just spun. He spots Simmons and Wash standing frozen in surprise in the doorway, and he gapes. Carolina and Tucker both try and turn their heads in their direction, but Carolina doesn’t quite have the angle for it. The instant Tucker spots them, he collapses into laughter onto the mat. 

“I win!” Carolina shouts triumphantly. “I  _ told _ you so! What are you laughing about?” 

“Y--your husband’s so bad at cheating he didn’t even remember to put all of his clothes back on! Simmons, th-this is on a whole different level!” 

“I… lost it in a bet,” Wash defends himself. “Why are you playing Twister?” 

Palomo’s too occupied with gaping at Wash’s bare chest, and Tucker with delighted laughter, so Carolina answers. “You know I… honestly can’t remember. One thing just led to another, you know?” 

“Man!” Tucker wipes a tear from his face. “That was good. Sorry, your chest is wonderful. And what kind of coffee houses are you guys going to that you lose shirts in, what, strip poker? Because I want in.” 

“I don’t think cops would be welcome at the completely legal coffee house,” Wash dodges. “And don’t you think you should be leaving now? How long can you justify to the station following up on a call in like this? The neighbours must be beginning to grow nervous.” 

Tucker gets a slightly more serious expression at that, frowning thoughtfully. “Ugh, you’re probably right. I bet they’re wringing their hands about everyone in the house being murdered or something. Come on, Palomo, as much as I don’t want to leave a couple of hard tens, we’ve got actual work to do.” He stands up. 

“You got it, partner!” 

“For the last time, man, don’t call me that.” 

And then they both leave, Tucker stopping to wink at Carolina and nod at Simmons. 

Wash looks straight into Simmons’ eyes. “You have terrible taste in friends.” 

Simmons wonders if it’d make him seem more or less pathetic to say that Tucker isn’t his friend. In the end, he just sighs, nods, and gets ready to go home already. 


	7. What are your intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons looks up (and that’s rare, someone being taller than him) into a pair of steely eyes belonging to a beautifully intimidating stranger. He has dark skin and darker hair in a ponytail, his face scarred and jaw strong and a flat expression that promises no hesitation in pulling the trigger if Simmons pulls any bullshit. 
> 
> Simmons subtly starts to move his hand to pull some bullshit.

So, Simmons drives home. Parks his car. Sighs for a long moment, eyes closed. It’s been a day full of… mixed emotions. Tiring, definitely. It’ll be good to go to bed, maybe a bit early, but he’s an adult and he decides his own curfew now,  _ dad.  _

He gets out of the car, locks it, unlocks his apartment door, gets in, and as he’s toeing his shoes off he thinks,  _ the door shouldn’t take so long to close where’s the click?  _

Two seconds too late, the click of the door closing comes. Simmons turns around too late. There’s a gun pressed up against his chest. 

Simmons looks up (and that’s rare, someone being taller than him) into a pair of steely eyes belonging to a beautifully intimidating stranger. He has dark skin and darker hair in a ponytail, his face scarred and jaw strong and a flat expression that promises no hesitation in pulling the trigger if Simmons pulls any bullshit.  

Simmons subtly starts to move his hand to pull some bullshit. 

“Don’t even try, Richard Simmons,” he says, his voice deep, and Simmons freezes. He knows his name, knows who he is, which means that he knows that Simmons can channel fire through his hands. The muzzle of the gun pushes harshly into his chest, his heart racing. He doesn’t feel even vaguely tired any longer, adrenaline rushing through his veins. He hates when he has to remain still and calm during crisis situations. 

He moves his hands away, and the gun pressing against his chest pushes a little less, but it’s still pressed firmly against him. 

If he knows who Simmons is, then this means that this wasn’t random (which isn’t all that surprising to be honest). He researched him. Found out where he lived. Followed him inside, without Simmons somehow noticing. 

The question is, why? And the even more pressing question: how can he survive this? 

“... What can I do for you?” he belatedly rasps, eyes flicking back and forth between the gun and the expression radiating dislike near uncontrollably. Dislike? This is personal. Simmons has never seen this man before in his life, he’d remember him. He’s too handsome to forget. 

“What are your intentions?” the man asks, well, more like he demands. 

“Could you, uh, be more specific?” 

His eyes narrow, and Simmons suppresses a cringe. 

“You’re up to something,” the man states, like a fact. “Why would a successful bounty hunter try and hunt down someone’s  _ cat?”  _

Simmons’ brain stops for a moment. 

“This,” he says, eyes wide and flabbergasted. “This is about  _ Pringle?”  _

He can’t believe it. 

“Of course not,” the man scoffs. “This must be about Grif.” 

Simmons, feeling very out of his depth, just stares. Well, he’s right. It definitely is more about Grif than the cat for him. 

“He may not have noticed,” the man rumbles on. “But I did. He didn’t put his address or name on that poster, yet you found it and called him by name without even calling first.” 

Oh. Oh  _ no.  _

“If you Google someone's phone number you can find out--”

“Not Grif. He doesn’t keep that stuff updated.” 

This guy is starting to sound awfully familiar with Grif. “Are you, uh, friends?” he asks, and then it occurs to him: jealous boyfriend. Duh. 

God, he hopes not. He absolutely can’t compete with this, in any way. 

“Roommates,” he answers, which is honestly almost as bad. “So don’t think you can come close to him any time soon without me being there. Now, why the interest? Tell me what you know.” 

_ Tell me what you know.  _ That kind of phrasing, it implies that there’s something  _ to _ know. 

Simmons doesn’t know anything about Grif, really. He already knew that, but it didn’t quite hit him until now when he’s confronted by the fact that Grif seems to have some sort of dark secret big enough to have his roommate wave a gun in his face over him potentially knowing it. 

“Uh, um,” he stutters, mind spinning for an answer as his thoughts keep getting snagged on the fact that he doesn’t have a satisfying answer and the  _ gun. _ “He-- dropped out of highschool? Low motivation, his teachers wrote. Uhhh-- he has a sister?” 

The man’s expression darkens. Yup, okay, definitely a mistake to let on he knew that one. 

“I didn’t mean anything by--”

“Don’t  _ play _ with me, I know there’s no reason for someone like you to be interested in him except if you know about--” 

And that’s when Simmons, seeing where this increasingly deteriorating conversation with a fucking gun involved is going, decides to cut his losses and starts shooting fire fucking everywhere. 

Normally, he’s more careful with his powers. He takes down a lot of his targets without using them at all, really. They’re just too volatile, too dangerous, too hard to contain. For one thing, using them indoors? A  _ real _ bad idea. 

But there’s an unamused man holding him at gunpoint in his own apartment and his mind’s starting to go fuzzy with panic and so he just. Burns. 

He can steer his flames with his hands a little, which is why he tends to use them when he’s channeling his powers. But there’s another option. His palms aren’t facing the man, so instead he just lights his entire body on fire for a moment as hot as he can, and the man winces away from the sudden heat just like he’d planned, just like he’d hoped, and his gun’s off of him and Simmons is finally free to move. 

He douses the flames enveloping him first of all, because he’d prefer not to burn all of his clothes off if he can. And then he quickly reaches up to hold the man’s hand that’s still tightly clutching onto the gun. Powers on. He can _ hear _ the man’s skin sizzling. 

The man just grunts in pain, keeps his grip on the gun with an iron will which Simmons did not see coming but probably should have, and then he punches him right in the face. 

Simmons was hit by a car once, and it didn’t feel as bad as this punch. 

He wakes to maybe a few seconds after being punched, blinking dazedly up at his ceiling to the sound of his door slamming shut, to a hard to define pain that hurts too much to pinpoint to any location more accurate than just his face as a whole. To the smell of smoke. 

Oh, fuck. 


	8. something completely innocuous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His hand’s on the doorknob when he hears a crash coming from inside the house that makes him tense.

He has a fire extinguisher, of course. Several fire extinguishers, in fact, one in every room. This time, though, it isn’t enough. He tries to put out the fire for longer than anyone else could have, the smoke and the heat nothing to him, but he eventually has to leave when the floor starts crumbling beneath him. 

Simmons stares despondently as his apartment building burns to the ground, not really sure what to do with himself except to try not to panic. Well, that settles that. No one’s ever going to rent out an apartment to him again. Because, well, when a building that a mutant with fire powers lives in burns down, it’s kind of obvious what happened. 

“MY BUILDING!” Simmons’ landlord howls in anguish. He decides it’s time to beat a hasty retreat, and makes for his car. Oh god, is he going to have to live in it from now on?  _ How is he going to shower?  _

He’s only barely started driving--destination, nowhere--when his phone rings. At least he hadn’t left  _ that _ behind in his disintegrating apartment. He fumbles for it and answers, eyes on the road instead of the caller ID. 

“Hello?” 

“Simmons!” Wash says, sounding alarmed. 

He swerves on the road a little bit, lifting the phone away from his ear and wincing. Wash can reach a pretty high pitch when he’s tense enough. And then he’s putting the phone back to his ear, worried, thoughts racing. 

“Wash, what’s wrong?” he asks. Did handsome gun guy visit Wash and Carolina too? No, there’s no way he’d have reached them already, he was _ just _ here with Simmons a little while ago. 

“Your apartment’s on fire is what’s wrong!” he exclaims. “Did you not know?” 

“Oh, uh, no I know about that.” So that’s on the news already, then. Great. He imagines his parents watching the broadcast and tutting, and grimaces. “My bad.” 

“What happened? Was there a fight?” 

A very brief one, sure. 

“Can I talk with you about it in person?” he says instead. 

“Sure, come right over.” 

“I’m on my way.”

And then he tries to formulate his thoughts and what just happened into something approaching coherent. From what he can tell, it all seems to be just a huge misunderstanding by Grif’s roommate caused by Simmons’ admittedly suspicious behavior. Except for the part where Grif’s got a dark secret. And the part where Grif’s roommate has a gun for some reason. He wonders if Roommate owns it legally. 

He’s muttering to himself as he parks by Wash and Carolina’s house and walks up their driveway, practicing how he’s gonna tell them what happened. It strikes him that Wash is probably going to drop helping him with the Pringle case once he tells him everything; problems are starting to snowball, and it’s all starting to look like something actually  _ serious _ that could be dangerous, and Wash doesn’t want anything to do with that. 

Well, that’s. Fine. Totally fine! Simmons can handle this on his own. He just has to clear the air with Roommate somehow, follow up with Sarge on any Pringle sightings, and cross his fingers when it comes to whatever Grif’s hiding. Easy peasy. He won’t get lonely--

His hand’s on the doorknob when he hears a crash coming from inside the house that makes him tense. Another great crash, the sound of many things breaking. 

Maybe this is like when he and Wash had been nervous about Carolina being in trouble, and then they walked in on something completely innocuous. 

A pained cry. 

Simmons opens the door and slips inside. It’s a complete disaster inside, the pictures on the walls either crooked or fallen to the floor, glass broken in their frames and littering the floor with shards that mingle with the blood spattered on the rug--not too much, not a lethal amount--and as he creeps further into the house he sees furniture overturned and thrown, nothing in its proper place. 

He follows the sound of fighting, quietly. 

He finds Carolina trading blows with a man in blue clothes and a kevlar vest, the two of them taking turns deftly dodging each other or getting hit by punches that seem to land like hammers. Neither of them have noticed him yet. 

No fire powers. That’s worked badly for him today already. But he has his gun. No, the neighbours will hear. 

He takes out his knife instead, the grip of it fitting comfortably in his palm. 

As he approaches with painful slowness, the man in blue elbows Carolina harshly in the mouth, and her lips are red with blood as she snarls and headbutts him in the nose to the sound of a satisfying crunch. 

Simmons delicately puts the serrated edge of his knife at a snug distance from the man’s throat. He freezes accordingly. 

“What’s going on,” Simmons says, his mouth feeling very dry. 

Carolina gives him a wide eyed look, and then backs away from the man to slump against the wall in exhaustion. 

“That’s what I’d like to know,” she says, voice slurred, most likely from the multiple hits Simmons saw her take to the face. “Care to tell us why you’re bothering us all of a sudden, Florida? Me and Wash are retired.” 

It doesn’t surprise him to hear that Carolina used to be a bounty hunter after just seeing her fight like that. 

“Oh, are you?” Florida asks in the tone of someone making pleasant smalltalk. “Are you sure?” 

“What do you mean by that?” she asks, her eyes narrowing. 

“Welllll, it’s just that sources point to Washington making contact with multiple bounty hunters today, making deals and such, and a police officer was in here with you for an  _ awfully _ long time--getting yourself a man on the inside? Trying to break back into the biz, Carolina? There’s no shame in that, but me and my partner would appreciate it so much if you wouldn’t do it in this city. It’s starting to get crowded.” 

Simmons blinks at the deluge of information. He doesn’t recognize this man and he makes a point to keep tabs on the competition, which means-- illegal bounty hunter. 

“You’ve been watching us closely,” she says. “But not closely enough, apparently. None of that was right, we’re just--  _ Simmons!”  _

He’s falling to the floor before she’s even finished, before he even realizes the man had said ‘me and my  _ partner’, _ before he realizes that the fight that must’ve been taking place somewhere else in the house and keeping Wash occupied was silent and presumably dealt with, before he can start to think what this means for Wash. 

He just thinks,  _ ow the back of my head!  _


	9. The best dirty money can buy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh good, Simmons, you’re up,” Carolina says with forced maniacal cheer as he woozily blinks his eyes open. “Wash, we can stop carrying him.”

“Oh good, Simmons, you’re up,” Carolina says with forced maniacal cheer as he woozily blinks his eyes open. “Wash, we can stop carrying him.” 

Simmons yelps as he falls a foot onto the ground. He frantically looks around himself. He’s in Wash and Carolina’s backyard, the two of them standing by him, blessedly alive although roughed up. There is no sign of Florida or his partner around. 

There’s a heavy thud from inside the house. Well, Simmons stands corrected. 

“What?” is all he can manage. 

“There’s no time to spare,” Wash says in a rush, climbing over the back of his white picket fence. “We have to get out of here before the police arrive.”

“Why?” he asks, head still spinning from the hit. 

“When the fight started to go downhill for us,” Carolina says grimly, “I decided I had to bring guns into it. We won--”

“--Without any fatalities, thank god--” Wash cuts in. 

“--but there were multiple gunshots. It was definitely called in. We have to get far away from the house and act like we weren’t even at home when it happened. Florida and Wyoming are skilled enough to escape before they get caught as well.” 

Simmons scrambles up onto his feet, and sways with bloodrush. Carolina steadies him and then climbs over the fence as well. “That’s a problem,” he says dizzily. 

“Yeah, that’s the other reason why we can’t be at home right now,” Wash agrees with a nod. “We can’t go back home until we settle the ‘the city isn’t big enough for the four of us’ issue.” 

“What’s interesting,” Carolina says, helping him over the fence, “is that that didn’t  _ used  _ to be a problem. They were fine with splitting the illegal bounties in this city between four people.” 

Wash didn’t keep updated with the bounty hunter scene any longer. Presumably, neither did Carolina. 

“Maybe that’s the problem,” Simmons realizes. “Maybe there’s more than four illegal bounty hunters here, now. Someone new that makes it so that Florida and Wyoming won’t tolerate you guys getting back in.” 

“That’s a definite possibility,” Wash says consideringly. He looks oddly pale, and sweaty in a sort of sick way. 

“And if it is true, and if we do find them, and if we manage to get rid of them, then perhaps Florida and Wyoming will leave us alone again,” Carolina says. 

“Get rid of them!?” Simmons asks, his eyebrows flying up. 

“Oh, relax,” she says. “There  _ are _ ways to get rid of people without resorting to murder, you know.” 

He relaxes. 

“We’ll be saving that for plan B,” she goes on. 

“What!?” Simmons yelps, looks to Wash for confirmation, and that’s when he finally sees the bone poking out of Wash’s arm.  _ “Oh my god!”  _

“Yeah, we’re gonna have to take care of that first,” Carolina says. 

“I-- oh fuck Wash I’m so sorry-- how are we going to--? My place burned down! And the cops are at your place! We don’t have any supplies--”

“Hang on,” Wash says, his brow furrowed with either pain or confusion as they walk. “Do you take care of your own injuries? Like, _ all _ of your own injuries?” 

Simmons pauses. “Am I not supposed to?” 

Wash tips his head back and groans with exasperation and physical agony. “You’re just supposed to do that for small stuff, Simmons. Bruises and scrapes and stitches you can reach with your own hands. Not a broken  _ arm.”  _

Carolina conceals an amused expression behind her hand. “I think you forgot to teach him a few things, Wash.” 

“There was a  _ lot _ of rushed cramming,” he defends himself. 

Simmons, unpleasantly flushing at once again apparently not knowing something obvious, tries to change the subject. “Who’s going to take care of our injuries if not us, then?” 

“The best dirty money can buy,” Carolina says. 

 

“Welcome to Doc’s back alley clinic!” a man in a purple sweater says with a welcoming smile, standing in a doorway in the the dirty alley Carolina led them to. The smell of Chinese food wafts out along with him. 

“Where’s Grey,” Carolina says. 

“Oh, she’s gone legit!” he says. 

_ “Damn it,” _ she curses. “I thought she liked not having any rules hanging over her.” 

“True,” Doc says, “but she also dearly wanted to publish all of her theories, so she left the back alley doctor life behind and left her old establishment in my care.” 

There was a spark of hope in her eyes. “So she trained you?” 

“Nnnnot exactly, no,” Doc says. “More like I answered her add on Craigslist, but--”

“We’re leaving,” Carolina says. 

“Um, Carolina,” Simmons says. “I think Wash passed out a minute ago.” 

Wash, draped over Simmons’ shoulder, drools a little and doesn’t protest. Simmons is going to have to find a new shirt or a jacket to cover up the new bloodstain down his side. 

Carolina looks at Wash, at Doc, back again, and closes her eyes and sighs. Opens her eyes and grabs Doc by the collar of his sweater, abruptly pulling him in close to her face as she hisses venomously with her eyes narrowed, “If you don’t do a good job, I’m dunking you face first into the nearest frier.” 

“Uh,” Doc yes. “Sure, yes, of course! I’m a great, ummmmm, not exactly  _ licensed _ medical professional, but--”

“Oh god,” Carolina says, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

“Wait, no!” he says triumphantly. “I am an entirely legal birthmother.” 

“Please,” she says. “Please stop talking and just fix him.” 

“It would be my pleasure,” he says, and then he’s leading them into the-- yeah, this is absolutely the back of a Chinese restaurant-- building, Carolina helping Simmons support Wash without jostling his arm, and before he knows it they’re inside a room that looks like it used to be a communal shower (the showerheads are even still there), but is now filled with what mostly looks like power tools, tarps, and a table. 

“Put him on the table,” Doc says, and then he starts rummaging through the power tools. Simmons blanches at some of the things he picks up to carefully consider before he tosses them away with a careless clang. 

Simmons and Carolina lower Wash onto the table. He’s very pale, except for where his skin is already turning various shades of bruise purple and blue, or where he’s stained with blood. Simmons remembers seeing him for the first time in years sitting on a couch while covered in cat hair instead, only a short while ago. Now his house is crawling with cops and mercs and his wife looks like she’s one misstep away from tearing a stranger’s head off with her bare hands. Doc is looking at a huge wrench thoughtfully. 

“I,” he says, his voice a weak squeak. He clears his throat and tries again. “I think I’m going to go and wait outside.” 

“I think I’ll wait here and keep an eye on stuff,” Carolina says, not taking her mistrustful eyes off of Doc for a second. 

“Buy yourself something!” Doc says cheerfully, not taking his eyes off his work either. “Illegal employee discount, except don’t call it that.” 

“Uh huh,” Simmons says, and leaves the room. 


End file.
